


Rigor Vitae

by shiplocks_of_love



Series: Deus Sex Machina [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All the puns, Alternate Universe - Crack, Crack, Dildos, F/M, Greg lends a helping hand, Humor, Inappropriate Use of a Morgue, Molly didn't get her hose, Sex Toys, Sexy Times, Sorry Not Sorry, amazingly enough there is no porn, friends to very intimate friends if you know what I'm saying, so to speak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 17:51:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14313984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplocks_of_love/pseuds/shiplocks_of_love
Summary: Molly finds herself with a hard, sticky problem to solve. Fortunately, Greg is willing to give a hand.





	Rigor Vitae

**Author's Note:**

> This will make (marginally) more sense if you read [DSMT](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14017182) first.

Greg Lestrade’s day has been eventful. Things had taken a turn with an irregular tox screen – had the man been murdered? Sherlock had glanced at the results, called him an idiot and left the Yard in a swirl of coat without further comment.

Hence Greg’s present visit to the morgue at Barts. If the moody consulting detective wasn’t going to help, Greg Lestrade would have to, well, do his job, really.

Exactly how Greg ends up holding a purple dildo in his hands, standing between a dead body and Molly Hooper, is not as easy to explain.

 

_Some 20 minutes earlier_

 

Molly walks back to the morgue, her short heels clicking on the cold floor of the corridor. She reaches for her access card with one hand; her other one holds a small cardboard tray with three large coffees: one for herself, one for Sherlock, and the third one for the visiting sales rep, John Watson. She knows how Sherlock takes his (black, two sugars) but has no idea what John might like. It had not been exactly the first thing crossing her mind before she ran out of the morgue.

What a bloody weird afternoon, she muses. Molly had simple plans: go through the tox screen of Mr Minderbinder (the stiff in drawer nr 3, God rest his soul), get help from the sales rep of Durham’s Surgical and Medical Tubing in choosing appropriate hoses for the new workstation, and go home at a decent hour for once. The first part had been easy enough, and Molly had e-mailed her observations to DI Gregory Lestrade – suspicious levels of benzos. Maybe Greg would want a more thorough evaluation. An extended tox screen. An enlarged–  

Hmpf, stupid runaway thoughts! All because John Watson turned out to come from Deus Sex Machina Toys, and now all she could think about was Sherlock clutching a vibrator and talking about prostrate stimulation, while a panoply of sex toys covered her autopsy table.

She’s a bit mad at Sherlock – really, the man could not have chosen a worse time to show up. She can’t decide what mortifies her the most: the embarrassing misunderstanding caused by a distracted typing of an e-mail address (it should have gone to a jwatson at dsmt dot co dot uk, not a dot com, she realises) or Sherlock knowing about it.

She’s technically not supposed to bring food or beverages in the morgue, but it’s not like Mr Minderbinder is going to complain about it. Anyway, getting coffee had been a diversion after Sherlock’s sudden interest in John’s… _product_. One thing was to fancy the man, but to see Sherlock in the same context of anything _sexual_ had sent Molly’s systems into overload.

She shows the card to the reader, and the door unlocks. Stepping into the morgue, Molly realises the room echoes empty. She sighs. Of course, that berk had left as hurriedly as he had come ( _arrived_ , her brain corrects automatically), not caring any longer about Mr Minderbinder. And John did say he’d be packing to leave. Why did she buy three coffees in the first place?

She bins the disposable tray and two cups and is about to take a sip from the third one when her eyes home in on _it_. How on earth did she not see _that_ when she walked in the room? It’s impossible to miss. John had obviously packed away his things but left _that_ one behind. Forgotten? He couldn’t have missed it either.

The purple dildo stands proudly on the table, its long length defying gravity. Molly blinks – that thing is _huge_. At least twenty centimetres of, er, _insertable_ length. She looks around instinctively as if anyone would jump out of a corner and catch her looking at a sex toy.

Molly wonders idly if John left it as an apology, even if the situation had not been his fault. Hardly necessary, she muses. Not quite _hardly_ , that’s not what she meant–

Obviously, she must first take care of the issue at hand: gift or no gift, an autopsy table is hardly the place to leave a dildo.

Molly walks up to the stretcher, grabs the offending object and tries to lift it. Ah – the suction cup. The dildo stays in place. Molly puts down her coffee to use both hands. Maybe she could try to pry the edge of the suction cup.

John had not been joking about the quality of his merchandise. The one he sells anyway ( _stupid brain, stop!_ ). The edge is smooth, very smooth, and Molly can’t find a weak spot to lift it. The suction is strong – it wouldn’t slide down a wall, for example. Or move in the event of an earthquake, apparently. She tries to pull up the dildo with both hands instead, but it won’t budge. The table top is very flat, with few indentations despite its age, which does not help Molly’s mission in removing the purple eyesore. She releases the thing and huffs in frustration. She could try to pry it off with a metal spatula, but she would hate to scratch the surface of the table.

Molly takes a step back and eyes the dildo, taking in details she had previously ignored. The colour could be described as electric dark purple, with protuberances mimicking the veins of a fully erect penis running along its length. Despite this, the surface feels velvety and pleasant to the touch. The girth is not too shabby either, she ponders.

A seed of a thought starts sprouting. Molly is at first horrified that her brain would conjure such an idea, but it seems to be taking root very fast, and the more she considers it, the less absurd it sounds in her head. It’s late in the afternoon; admissions to the morgue at this hour are rare. The table is sturdy, and it’s not like she hasn’t used one of those _things_ , anyway. The colour is a bit… not to her taste, but it’s not like she would see it when in use, right?

And damn it if seeing the display of _options_ offered by DSMT’s solicitous sales rep had not turned her switch firmly to the ‘on’ position.

She moves her coffee cup out of the way and removes her lab coat. The morgue isn’t exactly the most inviting of places: it is chilly, white walls contrasting with stainless-steel surfaces, the raw light from fluorescent bulbs adding to the grim feeling of the room. Molly is unfazed by her surroundings while working; nevertheless, her impending activity would benefit from a little warmth.

Trying to not give it too much thought, she unzips her jeans and lowers them together with her knickers mid-thigh. No way she’s taking off the whole thing; it is way too cold in the room.

Time to test how sturdy that suction cup is!

The logistics of the operation aren’t exactly easy though. She climbs awkwardly onto the table and considers the best way to proceed. The metal surface feels cold against her buttocks. She decides to plant her feet on the top of the table and assume a squatting position. Not her favourite, but how else can she, er, dive into the matter?

Molly barks a laugh at the absurdity of the situation while scrambling to the desired crouch. She thinks that it would be nice to give the purple dildo a name. Her favourite one, tucked away in a drawer on her bedside table back in her flat, is called Rupert – she likes names with an aristocratic flair. Maybe this one could be Bened–

An assertive ring of the bell followed by a firm triple knock on the door startles Molly.

Crap. It’s _Greg Lestrade_. He’s the only one who rings and knocks like that.

She freezes while hovering over her new friend. Perhaps she could pretend she had left?

“Molly, you in there? Need to have a look at Mr Minderbinder again, sorry but it’s urgent.”

Molly closes her eyes in resignation. No way she can obstruct Greg’s work in exchange for a few minutes of indulgence. She sighs and hops down from the table, quickly pulling up her jeans and underwear. “Y-yeah, sorry, I’ll buzz you in in a tick. My hands are. Dirty.”

“Cheers, I’ll wait.”

A sudden wave of horror invades Molly. How the hell is she going to explain the presence of a dildo stuck on the table? She glares at the toy, which stands as if glaring smugly back at her. There’s nothing for it – she needs to improvise, and fast. In one swift movement, she opens drawer nr 3 and pulls out its inhabitant. This is a highly irregular procedure, but her impending mortification weighs heavier right now. Good thing Mr Minderbinder was on the thin side – he is easy to slide onto the table. Unfortunately, Molly is unable to cover the purple contraption with the body and is instead forced to scissor Mr Minderbinder’s legs around the dildo, which is now snug against the groin of the expired man.

It looks exactly as one might imagine it does.

From the other side of the locked door, Lestrade clears his throat but says nothing.

“Just a minute, Greg, I’m, I’m almost done here,” Molly stammers nervously. She flings a sheet over the body.

It’s – noticeable. There’s really no way around it. She’ll have to make something up. She sighs and turns around to buzz in Greg.

Greg Lestrade pushes the door open and beams at Molly. “Hi there! Sorry to interrupt, but after your report I thought I needed to see you again. I mean, to see the body. The stiff.”

“Right!” Molly knows she replied in a pitch betraying her nervousness. She slides in between Greg and the table, hoping to block the… view. “Yes, the, uh, benzos, right? Yes, yes. Um. Well, lucky you! I just finished examining Mr Minderbinder again and there is absolutely nothing stiff about him. I mean, nothing _strange_ ,” Molly corrects a bit too brightly. “Was just going to put him back, actually. In the. Drawer.”

“Ah, well. I wonder how they got into his system–”

Greg’s eyes slide along the obvious tent around the groin region of Mr Minderbinder. “Um, Molly,” he starts hesitantly, “say, he’s a bit, well. How should I put it.” He waves a hand in the general direction of said tented bit of sheet, not quite staring but not quite looking the other way either.

“POST-MORTEM PRIAPISM!” Molly screams, startling Greg. “Um, sorry, didn’t mean to… it’s a quite common phenomenon.” She straightens her back to project a professional stance.

Greg frowns. “Thought it only happened when they get strangled. No signs of violent death, though, were there?”

“Ah, it can happen with acute poisoning too.” At least that bit was correct enough. Extremely unusual, and unlikely in this case, but.

To her enormous relief, Greg looked convinced. “Heh, poor guy. He was quite, er, well-endowed, no?” He snickers and moves closer to the table. “Say, would you mind?... I’m just, you know, a bit curious.”

Molly’s eyes widen in terror; she feels the tell-tale of absolute mortification as a burning wave of shame flushes up from her neck and across her face and sweat beads on her forehead. “N-no! I mean, it’s against protocol; you really should not touch the body!”

“Aw, I wouldn’t be touching the _body_ , now would I? Just lifting the sheet a bit,” Greg replies while stretching a hand to the hem of the sheet at Mr Minderbinder’s hip.

It all happens as if in slow motion: Molly is appalled by Greg breaking procedure, but before she can protest again, Greg reaches out to grab the edge of the sheet… and raises it. She sees his cheeky smile give way to an incredulous gape, his eyebrows shooting impossibly up.

Greg drops the sheet like it burned his hand. He turns slowly to Molly. “Er.”

“There’s a. Perfectly good. Explanation,” Molly stammers.

“Look Molly, it’s none of my business–”

“It’s not what it looks like–”

“It’s perfectly fine to have kinks, but–”

“That is not my–”

“It _is_ a body from a possible murder victim, and–”

“Will you please stop!” Molly finally snaps. She tries to find the words to explain the situation but where to even start? Obviously, Greg now thinks that she was about to explore the world of necrophilia with the help of a (not so) little purple aid.

“All, I’m saying,” Greg speaks in a placating tone, “is that you don’t need a dead body if you want to do a bit of, you know. _Role-playing_.”

Molly stares blankly at him. _What_?

Greg licks his lips. “I mean, I get it, I really do. I’ve had my share of experimenting… _stuff_ with my ex. When we were married,” he hurries to clarify, “to keep the flame alive. You know. Maybe I’m not the best example, of course, but–”

“Greg.”

“Hm?”

“Please. Shut. Up,” Molly pleads. “I am not. _Not_. A necrophiliac.”

“I’m not saying that,” Greg replies carefully, “all I’m saying is that there are, um, some people willing to… pretend. To be, you know. Dead.”

Molly continues to stare at him. Greg holds her gaze with a mix of embarrassment and… something more that Molly can’t really define. “Um. I was going to–but without Mr Minderbinder, you see? Just the–thing. I’m not into. That. I couldn’t remove the, um. The dildo from the table, it’s. Stuck.”

Greg furrows his brow and flicks his eyes between the bulge on Mr Minderbinder’s groin and Molly’s hands. Molly can see he’s going into detective mode and is now grasping the full picture, as his features smooth in dawning realisation. “Oh! Maybe I can help you?”

There is an ambiguity in Greg’s question that both catch simultaneously. Molly cringes – not that she would be opposed in being _helped_ by Greg. The middle-aged detective is an attractive man, with his easy, flirty smile and silvery hair, broad shoulders atop an excellent physical condition. Molly can’t help giving him a discreet once-over and imagining how better _helped_ she would be by Greg Lestrade instead of her (admittedly tempting) new rubbery friend.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Greg clarifies as he looks as mortified as Molly feels, “I can try to unstick it from the table.”

“Oh. Um, sure. Have at it.”

Greg steels himself: he takes a deep breath and straightens his back and turns towards the table. In a cool, detached movement, he removes the sheet and throws it to a nearby bench.

“The stiff didn’t have a stiffy after all, eh?” Greg tries to lighten the atmosphere. Molly scrunches her eyes closed for a moment; when she opens her eyes again, she glares murderous thoughts at him.

Greg clears his throat and drops his smile. “Right. Um.” He stretches his arms over Mr Minderbinder’s hip and grabs the dildo with both hands. For what seems to be an agonizing small eternity but is, in fact, only about a minute or so, Greg wiggles, pulls, pushes and bends the toy, grunting, huffing and puffing in effort.

Finally, with a _plop_ sound a tad too obscene for a morgue, the dildo releases itself from between Mr Minderbinder’s loins, all twenty purple centimetres coming to rest in Greg’s hands. Greg stares at the object for a few seconds. His day had started in a quite standard, albeit busy fashion; this now was anything but. He hands the dildo over to Molly; she accepts it reluctantly and quickly places it on a nearby bench – on its side, just in case. She returns Mr Minderbinder silently but swiftly to drawer nr 3.

Greg stands in the middle of the room, arms akimbo and twisting his torso here and there while trying to look at anything except the dildo, while Molly works. “I, um, technically don’t need to see the body if you have done a careful examination.”

Molly looks offended at him. “I always examine bodies carefully.”

Greg gives her a long look. For a second, his eyes acquire a dreamy look, but he quickly shakes his head and snaps out of it. “Of course you do. But we still need to discuss the tox screen. That is, if you don’t have anything more pressing to do.” His eyes glide to the bench almost out of his volition.

Molly thinks she can’t possibly get any more humiliated today. She takes a moment to dispose of the abandoned sheet, doff her disposable gloves and wash her hands, giving her respite from Greg’s equally embarrassed demeanour. She ponders for a moment on what to say or do. That purple problem needs to disappear somehow, and quickly – sex toys don’t belong in professional conversations, and Molly thinks it’s time to stand her ground again. This is her morgue, for crying out loud.

Greg is never going to believe the toy was not hers from the start, so she’ll just have to own it. She grabs His Purpleness and casually throws it in her handbag, like she’s owned that thing since the dawn of times. She turns to Greg with a flick of her ponytail. “My coffee went cold, and I could use something warm. To drink. Um. Can we take this to the cafeteria?”

“This…”

“The _discussion_.” She starts walking decidedly to the exit, prompting Greg to do the same.

Greg smiled a genuine grin to Molly. “Sure, I’d like to get my hands on the subject.”

They pass the door, and Molly smirks at him. “It’s a tough one, eh?”

“Quite hard, indeed,” Greg quips, “a rather big problem, I’d say.”

Molly tries to not smile too widely at the path their exchange is taking. “But the base is solid enough. Still, it’s a sticky situation.”

“We’ll be able to squeeze out something from it, I suppose.” Greg hesitates for a moment. “Molly, um. After coffee. How about dinner?”

Molly eyes him with a glint of mischief:

“I’ll gladly come with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I regret nothing.  
> Come and say hi to me on [Tumblr](https://shiplocks-of-love.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
